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“As are you, Granddaughter.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” she said, having rehearsed the line many times. Her father was, after all, Lady Miriel’s son.

“And I for yours. Come, sit beside me.”

Freya was escorted up the two wooden stairs and was about to move toward the seat to the right of her grandmother when another stir began at the back of the hall, where Freya had just entered.

Their eyes locked.

Every woman in the hall looked his way, including Freya. A shiver ran up her back at his appearance. The beard growth on Rory’s face was gone. That plus the new tunic she’d not seen before, one that bore the Waryn crest, gave him an entirely different appearance. More polished, but not overly so.

Do not think of it.

Too late. That moment had been seared into her mind forever. Freya swallowed. And then remembered to sit. She was pushed in with the help of a servant, and no sooner did Freya settle into her seat than Rory approached with the steward at his side.

“May I present Sir Rory Waryn, son of Sir Bryce Waryn and Lady Catrina of Clan Kerr, nephew of the Earl and Countess of Kenshire and escort for your niece, the Lady Freya,” the steward announced as Rory bowed. “I give you Lady Miriel of Shenworth,” he said to Rory.

“Stand,” her grandmother commanded.

He did, though Rory’s expression would not bode well for him. Freya should have worried for this introduction, it seemed. Surely this was not a good start.

“Do I amuse you, young Lord Waryn?”

“You do not,” he said, not even glancing her way. “Though I do find pleasure in the identical expressions worn by you and your granddaughter. Were she older, I would have thought you mother and daughter. One as lovely as the next.”

Oh dear. Her grandmother would not respond to flattery.

“You are indeed the charmer they say you are.”

Freya turned to her grandmother. “You know of him?”

“There is a not woman alive in England who’s not heard the name Bryce Waryn whispered in their ears. Aye, I know of him. And the son, too.” She turned to Rory. “I thank you for your safe escort of my granddaughter,” she said. “But care not for the way you look at each other. Have you dishonored her?”

“Grandmother!” Freya’s eyes flew to Rory, who still looked as if someone had just told an amusing jest. But this time, he did lock eyes with her, if for but a moment.

That was enough to make Freya clench in her seat, remembering.

“I stole no kisses from your granddaughter,” he said, the hall as silent as Freya had ever heard one with so many people in attendance. She wished to crawl under the table. “And deliver her properly prepared for a husband.”

She could appreciate that he had tried to avoid calling her a virgin in front of a hall filled with people, but Freya was unsure that “properly prepared for a husband” suited any better. And yet, he told the truth. He had not kissed her, just suckled on her finger and made her . . .

“Freya?”

She swallowed. “Aye, Grandmother. His words are true.”

Freya refused to look at him. She would come apart if she did. After so many days, most of them not speaking, she should have been able to forget the incident.

Ha!

As if she could do so even fifty years from now.

“Come, sit beside me as an honored guest,” her grandmother said. “Do continue your meal,” she called out much louder, surprisingly loud for a woman of her age. The harp began again, and one by one, her retainers did just that.

Her grandmother ordered food be brought to her “granddaughter and honored guest.” Their wine goblets were filled, and Freya had no choice but to look Rory’s way to speak to her grandmother. Thankfully, he was partially hidden by her. Otherwise she feared she would be no better than any of the others who gawked at him with barely concealed open mouths.

“Tell me of the attack, Freya,” her grandmother said once the wine had been poured.

Taking a deep breath, she told her everything. From the short siege to realizing her brother was among the men outside their walls. She was able to do so without so much as a crack in her voice until she came to the part when the king’s second-in-command ordered the leaders of Edyington hanged. From the men’s frantic escape to her refusal to leave, her escort from the hall and inability to say goodbye to her father, to her confinement in her bedchamber, Freya recounted all of it. And then waited.